


Starcrossed Losers

by Cornflaek



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Rating May Change, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26412169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornflaek/pseuds/Cornflaek
Summary: She wanted to talk about what was on his mind, because she knew there had to be something, or he wouldn't have left by himself to smoke. She knew there had to be something because of the way his eyes were the same, even if he smiled, and because his hair was no longer the way it looked after he fixed it in the mornings. Ingrid knew almost everything there was to know about Sylvain, and he knew her, too.((Sylvgrid fic exchange in which we both had the same prompt. This was supposed to be a oneshot but I got way carried away and now it's an ongoing thing! Title swiped with much love from a song by The Fratellis that carried me through this.)
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Starcrossed Losers

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and else are very appreciated, constructive stuff included! Thank you to my husband and also my friends Alden and Ally for beta reading.

The old guitar resting on Sylvain's lap never really had a proper owner. None of his friends knew exactly how it came into their lives, but ever since the redhead brought it with him to one of their childhood camping trips, it always wormed its way back into their gatherings, one way or the other. Sylvain insisted he didn't know how to play, his fingers just plucked and touched the delicate strings without much thought. It was all based on memory, he thought, just a way to emulate what he thought the stars on TV used to do when they played their own songs at their concerts. There was no rhyme or reason to his rhythms, only lazy strumming at Sunday afternoons where him and the others gathered under the shade of a tree, Ingrid half asleep with her head on his shoulder and Felix looking at the distance, face resting on his closed fist while Dimitri whistled along to whatever Sylvain could come up with. 

"Man, if only this actually helped me pick up girls, huh?" His raspy laugh was always the same, and so was his attitude. Ingrid's eyes rolled in disdain, and Sylvain's debonair smile faded. "Sorry. Force of habit."

"It's always like that with you, Sylvain." She sighed.

Silence, awkward and embarrassing silence. Dimitri's whistling stopped when Sylvain's strumming did the same. The air surrounding them grew dense, and the redhead noticed it when his shoulders slumped. It was almost giving him a headache, and being the master of deflection and avoidance he truly was, Sylvain left the guitar against the tree before going off to take a walk. He didn't say much, just a sigh and "Well, I'm not gonna deny that.".

Felix and Ingrid exchanged looks. He expressed the usual disdain but, if she could still trust her judgement on her childhood friend's expressions, also a hint of concern. She carried the same look she'd always had when it came to the man who just left, though, and it had never changed since the day they first met. Ingrid wanted so badly for him to do better, she felt it in her very core that he had the potential needed, but even then, her frown betrayed the underlying optimism that she had: Sylvain was, and had always been, absolutely incorrigible.

A fading memory happened to cross Ingrid's swirl of thoughts and feelings: Herself, younger and much less cynical, pulling up the best pair of stockings her family could have bought her and bouncing in her heels at the sight of her shiny brown shoes. Mary janes, she recalled. That's what her mom had told her these shoes were called back then. She was made to wear a green, frilly dress and large bows in the ends of her braids, chin up and waist cinched. _'We're meeting some very important people today, Ingrid.'_ The voice was her Mother's, stern as she'd always been to the young girl. _'So please, act like a lady and don't get in trouble.'_

She returned to reality when Felix nudged her with his elbow, and gestured towards the way Sylvain went. 

"Go after him. I know you're thinking about it." He made it sound just saying it left a sour taste in his mouth. In truth, Ingrid knew he'd have liked to go with her, but his own stubborn disposition kept him from doing so. She thanked him for reminding her, and put a hand on his shoulder as if to say she'd be going to see Sylvain for the both of them.

Her sneakers sunk into the soft grass, and she thought of how she missed being barefoot instead. Her father chastised her endlessly whenever Ingrid came home those days, feet and legs coated in dirt and scraped knees still fresh from her adventures. _'But... but dad, Felix never gets grounded when he plays with me!',_ she'd tell him, but old man Galatea wasn't convinced by the comparison. It wasn't the same, he'd tell her. Boys would be boys, and she was… well, she was Ingrid. 

The day her mother dressed her with all the bows and braids so perfect not one hair was out of place, Ingrid remembered getting in her father's silver car, and watching the electrical poles go by. She imagined herself running across the telephone lines, just like she'd always done. When they parked, she saw a house unlike anything else: It was big, painted in white and full of big windows, with a yard that stretched so far that she felt like she could roam around forever. The heavy gate was magical, too. Her dad just said his name into the box on the wall, and it opened for them, without anyone having to walk there. _'Why can't we have a magic gate, dad?_ ' she'd asked, but instead of replying, her father simply rolled his eyes and ignored her. 

She could feel her own heartbeat as she walked closer to the man leaning against the brick wall. Sylvain's expression was distant, as if he were reminiscing just as Ingrid had just been. Even when she finally got closer and put a hand on his shoulder, he didn't even flinch. A cigarette was lit between his fingers, and he held it up to his lips. Ingrid held his hand, and brought it down before he could have a drag. It made Sylvain chuckle, not because it was a funny situation, but because by now, he didn't know what else he could do.

Ingrid put the cigarette out on the brick wall behind them. Words, however, seemed to fail both of them at that moment. She could only muster up one thing, and it came out of her lips like it hurt to say it:

"Hey."

Sylvain didn't ask anything about that, though. He replied with all the ease in the world, eyes transfixed on Ingrid's.

"Hey."

And silence crawled upon them again. They looked at eachother intently, examining every single thing. Ingrid's eyes stopped to gaze at a thin, but still noticeable scar Sylvain had on his nose, and she remembered when it got there. 

"This is from when Miklan shoved you on the table…"

"Ah, very perceptive, I see." He smirked at the girl who'd thought out loud. "But no, I'm afraid you're wrong. That's this one, look." 

Sylvain raised his chin, and pointed to another scar below it, this one more faded than the previous one. Ingrid ran a finger across it, and picked at it with her nail almost as if she were trying to remove it somehow.

"It's been longer than I thought..." She mumbled, attention still fully immersed in Sylvain. She never noticed how many small scars the man had, and now, being so close he could feel her warm breath on his neck, she counted them in her head. "And these are all from him?"

"Most of them, yeah." He was blasé about it, and she knew why. His brother had always been jealous, insanely jealous. Sylvain had been hurt by him for longer than he'd known Ingrid, and she'd comforted him after for many years as well. "Not the one you pointed out, though. That one was from the time I tripped in some rose bushes-"

"Because Glenn stole some flowers for me and we had to run from his neighbors. Yeah, I remember." She completed his sentence without hesitation. It made a smile come to Sylvain's lips, and if Ingrid had been looking a few inches up, she'd have seen his cheeks redden. "He never thought much before just doing things like that."

"Oh, no kidding. The amount of times I had to pick you guys up from trouble, man…" His chuckle was interrupted by a rather smug look from Ingrid, and it made his act falter for a moment.

"You? Get us _out_ of trouble?" She laughed, "I was the one who did that for you, Sylvain. I had to explain to that same family when you stole even _more_ flowers, all so you could give them to their own daughter!"

"Oh, yeah… Man, she was _beautiful_ , though. Marie, was it? I'm pretty sure that was her name." 

"Her name was Muriel, and she was five years older than you." Ingrid sighed, " _Fifteen_ , Sylvain. She was fifteen, and she had a boyfriend."

"Right, right…" he dismissed it, of course. Ingrid didn't know why she expected otherwise of him. "Well, either way, I'm surprised you remember how I got that. You have a pretty impressive memory, you know."

Ingrid replied with a mumble, and looked away from him, stepping back as well. She wanted to talk about what was on his mind, because she knew there had to be something, or he wouldn't have left by himself to smoke. She knew there had to be something because of the way his eyes were the same, even if he smiled, and because his hair was no longer the way it looked after he fixed it in the mornings. Ingrid knew almost everything there was to know about Sylvain, and he knew her, too. He was there the day she'd been taken by her parents to meet him and his family, dressed as well as the daughter of a bankrupt man could afford to be, and with green eyes that used to make butterflies stir in his stomach. He was the one to wait until their parents were distracted and talking about their businesses, and when he knew it'd be safe, Sylvain asked her if she'd like to play tag around the house. Even when she told him her mother hated it when she played like that, he was the one to reassure her and tell her he'd cover for her if she found out.

They ran around the property for what felt like endless hours, and Ingrid's hair, previously arranged in flawless braids, had come undone to reveal the messy, layered blonde locks she woke up with every day. Sylvain's custom made shoes had been kicked off at some point, and he ran from her with a smile on his face, one more genuine than any rehearsed expression he'd put on later in his life. When she caught him, he fell over on his back, laughing and stretching out his arm while he joked about being wounded like a fallen hero in the stories they read. She said he was funny, Sylvain recalled. He never forgot that. Ingrid, one day, said he was funny. It came to an end when he heard their names being called by the adults, and they had to make their way back, grass stains on their clothes and cheeks red from the exertion. _'I-Ingrid, were you running?!'_ Her mother sounded indignant, Sylvain recalled, and before the girl said anything, he was the one to chime in with a fake apology and story about how the dog was chasing her and she had to run because she was afraid of it. Ingrid's gaze was low on the ground, and she only nodded along to his excuse. 

"What were you thinking about before I got here?"

Sylvain was brought back to reality by her voice, the anchor he'd grown so used to after all those years. His eyes had grown cold once again, and he felt his hands clam up at her words. Ingrid could read his decaying smile with ease. Too much ease, in fact, for the man's liking.

"I... I was thinking about us."

The honesty in his words blew Ingrid away. It was like a gust of Excalibur had just taken her feet off the ground. Sylvain was being truthful, he… he was…

"Wha... what do you mean, about us?" Her voice failed her, the stuttering was inevitable. 

He sighed, "Do you remember the day we met?" And he could feel his hands were cold. Ingrid's were, too. Sylvain just didn't know that yet.

"Y-yes, I... I remember it quite well." She tried to recompose herself, little by little, but her reddened cheeks were clear if he'd look at them. Thankfully for her, Sylvain's gaze was much too distant to focus on Ingrid right now. "We played tag around your house, and you… you lied so my mother wouldn't be upset with me."

"Do you _know_ why your parents were there, Ingrid?" He seemed… serious. Uncharacteristically so. She had to shake her head, though. Ingrid didn't know. She never bothered to ask, really. "Your parents were trying to find you a husband."

"Oh, they've always been like that." She sighed, "I'm sure they only gave up after they realized Miklan was going to be disinherited, and-"

"They were trying to get you married to _me_."

"Oh."

Neither of them said anything for the first few moments. Sylvain could _feel_ his head starting to hurt, nicotine would probably fix that in a second, but he knew Ingrid never liked that habit of his. Instead, he just looked at the sky, and how no matter what, it remained the same blue, never ending scenery to everything in their lives. The brick wall they leaned against was that of a seemingly abandoned church, and while Sylvain had never been the most religious, he considered how odd it would be for the Goddess to be listening in to him and Ingrid right now, of all times. The girl, or no, _woman_ next to him, seemed to simply not comprehend the words that had been said to her, at least not in their entirety. Still, Ingrid broke the heavy silence.

"And did you want to?"

"Huh?" 

"Did you want to marry me?"

Sylvain laughed, and shook his head nonchalantly. "It's not personal, I just, uh… even back then, I don't think I'd have wanted to marry anyone." 

She sighed, and nodded at him. She knew, of course. Ingrid knew about how he felt when it came to marriage, he'd ranted about it before. She'd heard all about how Sylvain had been the 'perfect substitute' for his good-for-nothing brother, and how _overjoyed_ Ambrose Gautier was to have a son that would carry his legacy for him. And even then, knowing all of that and even sharing his pain to a point… _why_ did she find herself hoping his answer would be different?

"I only thought we were going to visit your parents for business purposes." She murmured, and it elicited a cynical smile from the redhead. 

"Who says that it _wasn't_ for business purposes?" He chuckled, "I've told you, Ingrid. Your parents and mine, they've only ever seen us as tools."

She knew that, too. Ingrid simply didn't like confronting it or thinking about it too much. 

"Well... But then why didn't they just make me engaged to you, then?" It seemed like a no-brainer to her. "You were just what they were looking for, right? Rich, with a Crest and claim to your parents' assets…"

"Ah, but you're forgetting one thing." Sylvain got off of the wall, and before the girl could react, positioned himself in front of Ingrid. He placed a hand on the wall behind her and the other in his pocket, looking her up and down with a smile plastered on his lips. Ingrid knew that smile, of course. It was the same exact look he gave all the other girls, and she… she wasn't them, she'd never been. "I'm quite a lot of trou-"

"Stop."

Sylvain, charming yet infuriating, laughed at her interruption.

"Damn, I had a great line and everything." 

"I… I know. But I don't want to hear it." Ingrid looked away from him, as far away from the amber eyes in front of her and his stupid, ridiculous smile as she could. "I'm not one of the girls you toy with then leave, Sylvain."

A sigh left his lips, and in the corner of her eye, Ingrid saw him take his hand back to the other pocket and nod.

"...yeah, you're right. I'm sorry." He seemed embarrassed, actually. This didn't feel like the unbearable, incorrigible Sylvain that she'd known for so long. He was… different. Genuine, even. "But, uh… can I tell you a secret?"

"Fine." She had her arms folded over her chest, green eyes still anywhere _but_ on Sylvain. He didn't like that.

"That first day we met, and you and I played tag… I thought you were really, really pretty." Ingrid could swear he'd looked away, too. Like his cheeks had reddened up, even, all the way to the tips of his ears.

_'Must've been seeing things',_ she thought.

"…Sure. And that's all you want to tell me?" 

"Yeah, that… that's all, Ingrid." He said, and stood. Sylvain walked a few feet, and once he reached the street and the place he'd parked his car, waved Ingrid goodbye. She remained where she was, leaning against the decaying church and watching as her old friend drove away in that stupid red convertible. It was the same one he'd gotten as a gift for his sixteenth birthday.

_Gods_ , why did she even remember that? Ingrid didn't know, but the question still weighed heavily in the pit of her stomach, and in her throat. She brought a hand to run through her hair, and as she watched the car she considered a stain on the horizon go further and further away, Ingrid noticed she couldn't stop looking at it. She watched it go north for a while, until it disappeared after the hill, but even then, it didn't _really_ disappear. It could never. She knew the path Sylvain would take. She knew how to get to his home from here, the very same house with the magical door, endless backyard and too many windows that she'd daydreamed about so many times in her childhood. 

_Loog Boulevard, number 19-025._

She could picture it just as it was that day, with lines of foreign pine trees and a meticulously perfect yard, an old well with a cover, and a pomegranate tree she dared Sylvain to climb. It was the picture of good taste, and yet, thinking about it left an odd taste in her mouth.

_Loog Boulevard, number 19-025._

What a ridiculous place.

Ingrid wondered how long it would take for her to get there on her old motorcycle, the blue one parked on the street nearby. It wouldn't be very long, she concluded, not if she took the same path Sylvain did.

_Loog Boulevard, number 19-025._

She walked to her mount, every step felt heavy and stupid. So, _so_ stupid. When Ingrid turned on the motorcycle and felt the engine start, the weight in her chest felt like a lava lamp bubbling up to her throat. Her hand reached for her phone and tapped on the GPS app. Of all the ridiculous, idiotic ideas, she was… she wanted to go to…ugh.

**"You have inputted: Loog Boulevard, number 19-025."**

"Confirm."

**"Navigation initiated. Drive safely, and be mindful!"**

She was going, she had to. Something in her gut told her so, and Ingrid listened. There was no time to turn back now, and as she left the parking spot, motorcycle cruising through the streets pointed to her by the GPS, there was only one thing in her mind:

_'This isn't over.'_

**Author's Note:**

> My Twitter is @cornflaeck. I really hope you enjoyed the first chapter!


End file.
